Occupied City
Page 26
Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult square, in the light of its candles, truth only fragments, fragments only here –
No more mysteries no more mysteries
NO MORE MYSTERIES –
No more whodunnit contests, no more cash prizes,
no more solutions sealed in envelopes,
no more puzzles, no more games,
here fragments, only fragments
in the candlelight, in the half-light,
only fragments, fragments here. Here where nothing is rational, nothing is fair, where there are no more happy endings,
no more endings at all; no endings and no beginnings,
no books; no book-to-come –
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, beneath the Black Gate, among your blank papers, among your dry pens, you are spinning,
spinning and spinning, spinning again,
deaf again to the foot-stair-steps,
to the sirens, to the telephones,
to the familiar whisper of a familiar man, ‘I told you before, no more tears. No more tears for him …’
that familiar elderly man, that familiar first detective, among his boxes and among his files, dust-webbed and cob-covered,
dragging the dead body of the second detective, dragging it out of the occult circle, away from the light of the candles –
‘Where is your mystery, your whodunnit now?’ he laughs at you, he barks at you, ‘I told you, he did it! He did it!’
‘Liar! Liar! Liar-Dog! Dog-Liar! Lie! Lie!’ you are shouting again, because you hate detectives, and you hate dogs, and all detectives are dogs, all dogs detectives,
except one; this one,
this one which that familiar elderly man, that familiar first detective is dragging
away,
laughing and barking as he goes, as you try to stand, in the light of the four candles, as you try to stop him, in the occult square, to push him to the ground, to kick him in his gut and kick him in his head again, in his deceits and in his lies again, but he is gone now,
kicking over a candle as he goes, the ninth candle,
gone now with the body of the detective,
the dead body of the second detective,
gone now, now only three candles,
in an occult triangle,
remain. And still this book, this book will not come, still it remains the book-to-come, in the light of these three candles, in this upper chamber, where the shadows, the shadows are shuffling, moving now, advancing step by step towards you,
step by step-step, the shadows and the walls, step by step-step, the walls and the darkness, step by step-step –
For this chamber is shrinking, step by step-step, the walls coming closer, step by step-step, the ceiling coming lower, step
by step-step, one candle behind you, one to your left,
one to your right, closer, step by step-step,
lower, step by step-step, the shadows
and the walls, step by step-step,
the walls and the darkness,
step by step–
step –
In the upper chamber of the Black Gate, in the light of the three remaining candles, now a man is seated on the floor before you,
an old and broken man, his body bones and his hair grey,
his clothes those of a convict, a condemned man,
for this is the man who brought you here –
To the scene of this crime, to the words of this book; this book-to-come, that will not come here –
Here beneath the Black Gate –
The man whose case inspired you, inspired you to write this book, this book-to-come, this old man whose name you had hoped to absolve, exonerate and clear, clear –
Through your words,
through your art, to bring him justice, to give him redemption, to bring you attention,
recognition,
and now this old and broken man raises his head, and your eyes meet as the old man says, ‘People have been telling lies about me. I have been telling lies about me. Are you here to tell more lies?’
You shake your head, you smother a sob, and you push a candle towards him, across the tear-splinter-ed floor, and now you say, ‘I am here to listen, to listen to the truth, and then to write that truth. For this candle is your candle; your candle, your story …’
But the old man sighs, then the old man says, ‘I see no candles here, sir. No stories. I see only prisons. Only prisons …
The Tenth Candle –
The Protestations, Denials, Confessions of the Accused, Convicted, Condemned Man in the Cell, as it really was?
This city is a prison. Its streets and its houses. This room is a prison. Its chair and its bed. This body a prison. My head and my heart.
And they were prisons long before I was convicted of the Teikoku Bank murders, before I was sentenced to death and locked up in this cell in this prison. For I was my own jailer.
My own judge. I was in hell then.
I am in hell now.
Some doctors and my defenders will tell you that I have K-disease, that this disease is the reason I was convicted of murder and sentenced to death, and that this disease has been and remains my first and true prison. And maybe it is true. But I really don’t know. I cannot say. For there are so many things I cannot remember. And there are so many lies I have told. But is this because I am a diseased person, or is it simply because I am a bad person –
Not a sick man, but a wicked man?
But I will tell you my story, neither for your pity nor for my own absolution. I will tell you my story for those who mistakenly but unconditionally once had the misfortune to love me –
For my ex-wife and for my children, those on whom I have brought only shame, for them and only for them.
My name, the name I was given, is Hirasawa Sadamichi. I was born, so I have been told and so believe, on 18 February 1892, in the Officers’ Residence of the Kempeitai Headquarters in Ōtemachi, KŌjimachi Ward, Tokyo.
Because my father was a member of the Military Police, he was stationed in China during the Sino-Japanese War; however, my mother and I remained in Tokyo. On Japan’s victory in the war, my father returned to Tokyo in the autumn of 1904, but was soon transferred to Sapporo in Hokkaido. This time the whole family went with my father and I was enrolled in the local elementary school.
After a short while, my father resigned from the Military Police and took a position in the Sapporo City Office. At this time, my mother began to run a stationery shop from our house.
Soon after I had enrolled in junior high school, my father was again transferred, and my family moved to the city of Otaru, Hokkaido, where many of them still remain to this day.
In elementary school, I had become interested in art and this became my sole interest and one passion in my junior high school, where some of my teachers recognized and encouraged my talent in drawing and in painting. And even at such an early age, I began to show my work in public exhibitions.
My father, though, with his military background and stern traditions, was disappointed in me and my failure to fulfil his expectations for me. He would have preferred that I study kendo and not painting, with a view to a military career not an artistic one. This brought great tensions to our household and to our relationship. I believe this pressure and stress caused the neurosis with which I was diagnosed and which in turn led to my two-year absence from school.
However, during my enforced absence from junior high school I was able to continue my studies of art and to further develop my talents. And as a result of my own private studies, and thanks only to the kindness and generosity of my mother, but very much against the wishes of my father, I was able to enrol in the Institute for Watercolour Painting in Tokyo.
At school in Tokyo, I experienced a sense of freedom and fulfilment which I had not felt before. However, I also greatly missed my mother and was always aware of my filial responsibilities. So upon graduation from the Institute for Watercol
ours, I returned home to Otaru and my parents.
I had now reached the age of twenty-four and it was at this time that I met my wife, who was also living in Otaru. However, and for many reasons, both of our parents were opposed to our marriage and so we were forced to elope to Tokyo. But through my wife’s devotion and entreaties, she was able to persuade our parents to accept our marriage and we were then able to return to Otaru. And again, thanks to my wife’s devotion and also her sacrifices, we were able to set up our own household from which I tried to make a living, privately teaching drawing and painting.
I now look back upon this period as one of simple happiness and blissful stability, for it was during this time that our first child was born and our life was at its best. At that time, however, I did not appreciate such happiness and stability. My pride and my vanity sought a wider recognition for my talent and my works, as well as bestial cravings for fame and money. So it was that, in November 1931, I moved back to Tokyo again. And so it was that things have turned out the way they have. Would that I had been content with what life had given me in Otaru. Would that I had not returned to Tokyo. But now, of course, it is too late for such regrets.
At first, I lived in my grandmother’s house in Koishikawa. But then, soon after, I was able to set up my own house in Nishigahara, where I was later joined by my wife and child. The portents and signs, however, were already visible, had I had the eyes and senses to see and read them; our new residence was soon burgled and I became consumed once again by neurosis and by paranoia. I insisted we move, this time to Komagome, where I also insisted our new house be next to the local kōban.
My art, however, blossomed. I achieved success and recognition for my work, the success and the recognition for which I had so long craved. We were able to buy some land and to construct a new house in Itabashi Ward. At first I shunned the company of other artists and I tried to lead a modest life. However, on moving to Itabashi, I now recognize that something changed within me.
I began to invite other artists to our home and I began to affect the airs of a ‘genius’, of a ‘maestro’, consumed only by his art, caring only for his talent. And I now see, now it is too late, that, after a short while, these traits were no longer affectations but had infected me and would soon ruin me. And also, more tragically, my family.
Some time before, my wife had been bitten by a stray dog and our entire family given vaccinations against rabies. It was the side-effects of this vaccination that some people believe caused my mental deterioration. As I have said, I am not sure. I cannot say. But things now rapidly began to disintegrate. In 1939 I began an affair with a gallery attendant. And later the very same year, our house in Itabashi Ward caught fire and was completely destroyed. And so we were forced to rent another house close by.
In order to deal with the stresses of my adultery and of the fire, I began to undergo shiatsu therapy. And I still believe to this day, that it was this shiatsu therapy which saved my life at this time. For it is also true that at this time I frequently contemplated suicide. No doubt for my ex-wife and for my children, given all that has happened since, it would have been better had I taken my own life then.
For things only continued to worsen.
In the early summer of 1940, the rented house in which we had been temporarily living also caught fire, though the damage was not extensive. However, I had had enough of Tokyo and I insisted that we all move back to Hokkaido in order that I might fully recuperate. So it was that we spent the remainder of 1940 in Hokkaido. Of course, this could not last. The lives of my wife and my children were now firmly rooted in Tokyo, not to mention the audience and patrons for my own work.
But on our return to Tokyo I was immediately arrested by the police and taken to Itabashi Police Station. There I was interrogated on suspicion of arson. And I admit, though I was innocent, I almost confessed. However, after one day, I was released.
My troubles in Tokyo, though, were far from over. My mistress had learned of my return to Tokyo and now visited our family home. She had come seeking consolation money. I paid her the money she wanted and the relationship was ended. However, this incident undoubtedly caused great distress to my wife.
But blinded by my own arrogance, by my own insensitivity, I learned no lessons from the pain I caused then and I merely continued in my hurtful and my selfish ways, arrogant and insensitive.
For soon I started another adulterous affair.
At around this time, the war also began.
During the years of the war, my family and I moved many times, sometimes through evacuation orders, sometimes through economic necessity. By the end of the war, my wife and my children were again living in Hokkaido. I had remained in Tokyo, making trips back to Hokkaido to visit my family.
These were hard years for everybody and my family was no exception, though they all survived.
With the end of the war, my family gradually returned to Tokyo. My son came first, and then my wife and my daughters. By 1947 we were all reunited and living in Nakano Ward.
Of course, Tokyo was a very different, very damaged city. However, my life continued much the same as it had done before. I continued to paint and to try to sell my work, supplementing my income with various other activities but often reliant on the money which my children were now able to earn.
My affair also continued.
This brings me now to the winter of 1947-48 and the time of the crimes of which I was accused, convicted and sentenced to die.
Of course, I have been over this period and these events many times with many people. But once again I must state, I give this account now, not in the hope of saving my own life, only in the hope of sparing my family further shame.
As well as the murders, attempted murders and robbery at the Teikoku Bank on 26 January 1948, I was also convicted of forgery and fraud. These crimes of forgery and fraud are the crimes of which I am guilty and of which I want to speak first as they are also crimes which have a bearing on the Teikoku Bank case.
Sometime in the autumn of 1947, I received a cheque for ¥1,000 from a person whose name I can no longer remember. That day, I had little money on my person and so I went to a branch of the Mitsubishi Bank in order to cash the cheque. However, on the way to the bank, I realized I had forgotten my own personal seal. And it was then that I made my first mistake. For rather than return home for my own seal, I went into a shop and had a seal made in the name of the person who had sent me the cheque. I then proceeded to the bank.
Inside the bank, I went to the counter and took a ticket. I then sat down on a bench and waited for the number on my ticket to be called. But beside me on the bench, I noticed another ticket, another number. At that moment, the number on this ticket was called and on instinct, without thinking, I stood up and approached the counter. This was my second mistake. For at the counter, I received ¥10,000 in cash. Of course, this was a huge amount of money and, moreover, it was not mine to receive. But I said nothing, took the money and sat back down to once again wait for my own number to be called. When my number was called, I received my ¥1,000 at the counter and immediately left the bank, still with the ¥10,000 I had received under false pretences, if somewhat by accident or chance.
Of course, I felt most guilty. Then suddenly I had what I believed to be a good idea. I caught a cab to Ueno Park and got out just below the statue of Saigō Takamori. I quickly went into the mouth of the subway station, where over two dozen homeless children were gathered as usual. Here I mumbled some Buddhist mantra as I distributed ¥200 to each of the children until I had finally gotten rid of the ¥10,000. And that, I hoped, was the end of that and I tried to think no more about what I had done.
However, about one week later, while searching through my coat pockets, I came across the bankbook which I had also received when I had taken the ¥10,000. I have no idea where this thought came from, or what on earth possessed me, but I thought I should use the money in this account for the benefit of the Society for Tempera Painters, of whi
ch I was a member and from which I had repeatedly been forced to borrow money. In fact, I confess I had embezzled money from the society and I now wished to cover up my crime. So I began to think of a way in which I could take the money out of the account, which was in the name of a Mr Hasegawa.
I visited a seal-maker again, and this time I had a seal made in the name of Hasegawa. I then doctored the bankbook using other seals to show that there was over ¥200,000 in the account. Finally, I visited a moneylender who was living in Ōmori. This first moneylender was obviously suspicious of me and refused my request to borrow money from him on the strength of the money shown in the bankbook. However, he introduced me to a second moneylender who agreed to write me a cheque for ¥200,000 to be cashed at the Ōmori branch of the Dai-Ichi Bank. I do not remember the exact date on which this all occurred but I do remember it was a Saturday afternoon, for I was unable to cash the cheque that day.